The chap with wings there. Five rounds rapid.
I set out to review The Nest, a slightly off the beaten path yuppie hangout in Bethesda, MD, but then I found myself with the same problem as when I tried to review Fire Station One in Silver Spring. The Nest, while obviously a great date spot if you’re into that noisy herd of transplants thing, is, essentially, boring. Yet another overpriced and soulless watering hole.
Continue reading ‘The Nest’
I have a dream. I’m going to move to New Orleans and open up a DC-themed bar. I’m going to call it “In Session” and set it up somewhere posh where we can pick up tourists and commuters. For all the expats, it’ll be a true home away from home.
The first thing I’ll do is raze any historic buildings that are in my way and then build a faux-French Quarter style building that is, somehow, cold, brutalist, and unwelcoming.
A couple years ago, I decided to pick up every coin I found during my daily walks around Capitol Hill and obsessively record the findings in the forums. For the last few months, though, I’ve not had much luck. A part of me blames this on the economy. As things get tighter, and as we get more fretful, maybe we’re all stopping to pick up those pennies… Maybe I can chart the downfall of America through the nearly 200 posts in that forum topic.
But, more likely, the culprit is the wave of gentrification that’s swept through the DC area. Namely, the creation of the artificial neighborhood of “NoMa,” which spreads from New York Avenue up to Union Station, weaves around and down 2nd Street, and spiritually engulfs historic Capitol Hill and the revitalized H St. Corridor. “NoMa,” which stands for “North of Massachusetts Avenue,” because we want to pretend we’re like New York, is a business/residential district in the formerly dystopian northeast of DC. In the last decade, I’ve watched it change from a decaying warehouse district populated by whores, pushers, bloodied strippers, and madmen, all watched carefully by roving gangs of vigilantes, into a glittering collection of office buildings, cafes, markets, and condos that start at $3000 a month.
Continue reading ‘Vanilla City’
It’s 2011.
Great Society is ten years old.
Much of the Southeast quadrant of Washington, DC is riddled with crime and poverty.
The redevelopment of the H Street Corridor in Northeast DC is in full force, which will revitalize buildings untouched since the 1968 riots that erupted after the assassination of Martin Luther King when parts of H Street were nearly burned to the ground.
Chandra Levy is still dead.
Continue reading ‘A Nightmare in DC: Chandra, Southeast, & Other Rotting Corpses’
Two inches of snow is what we have right now in the DC area. Two years ago, the city would have come to a standstill and I’d be home right now, having vodka with breakfast, watching episodes of The Wire, and standing, naked, in my window as the private sector workers trudged sadly to work.
But, thanks to the Snowpocalypse of 2009-2010, and the repeated, empty-headed challenges from northern transplants that Washingtonians should man up, here I sit at my insane day job, where every sober moment feels like an entire lifetime slipping through my fingers.
Here’s the thing about DC and snow days – we need them. Half an inch of panic is just fine. We need the day off not because we’re afraid of the snow, or because our government response to snow removal is roughly equivalent to that of a small town in Namibia. We need it off because we’re all about to crack. All the time. Snow days save lives, folks!
Continue reading ‘The Importance of Snow Days’
I’ve completely failed at my Two Novels and a Baby project. It had me depressed for a few weeks… But then that feeling passed largely thanks to the main reason I haven’t been able to focus on writing a novel – I work six motherfucking jobs. I have just enough energy to pause outside the gun store and mutter dreamily, “If only…if only…”
Continue reading ‘Flights’
June in DC! When the lovely spring weather slowly slides into swampland horror. The sun glares down and it’s a humid mid-80’s before 8am. I try to walk 10 miles a day, despite my soul-murdering sedentary day job, so I push on through Code Orange mornings, breathing in toxic fumes and insuring that I’ll die, choking to death, at the age of 63. All for the illusion of fitness.
It’s about this time of year when I think about my long-abandoned goal to become a landscaper. That was back in 99, and I had just had what we’ll go ahead and call a nervous breakdown. I wanted to quit the office life forever, never dress up again, and get dirty every day. Drive around in a truck and mow lawns, plant trees, tend to gardens, wear shorts, and get sexually molested by lonely housewives and/or Slovenian ex-hooker au pairs.
Yet, I write this now after nine years sitting in a windowless office, talking to morons, and being treated by my superiors like I’m a troubled 13 year old.
Since 2004, I’ve gotten off at the New York Avenue Metro station every morning, walking down 2nd Street to my office near Union Station.
It’s a walk that I never would have taken when I was young. A walk I wouldn’t have even imagined taking even in the 90’s. When I was a kid, that section of DC was akin to a dark fairy tale. The stuff of nightmares.
There’s an oddity in Wheaton, MD: A Scottish-themed bar. Though the theme is about as far as it goes. The only thing Scottish about the food is that all the dishes have names like “The Nessie Fish and Chips” and so on.
I’m routinely hard on the faux-Irish pub phenomenon that so consumes the American bar culture. It’s one of those things where, when confronted by the legion of faux-Irish pub apologists, I always end up pitching into an argument. Largely because they, those mad zealots, insist that certain pubs in the DC area are “authentic” Irish pubs.
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